Can You Hear Me Now

All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost.

J. R. R. Tolkien

We had our first frost of the season on Saturday. Having lived in Minnesota since the 1980s, I know that no matter how hot the summer was or how much I wish for it to never end, winter will come. Even so, it’s always a bit of a shock when the cold weather arrives. It often feels like someone flicks a switch and overnight my world goes from shorts and t-shirts to jeans and jackets.

The same can be said for this week’s blog article. My thoughts have suddenly gone from being human and alive to death and dying.

A Whale of a Tale

My brother’s passing is still fresh in my mind. While I no longer think of him on a daily basis, it’s rare to go a week without something reminding me that he is gone. It might be a song we both liked or an article I read in the newspaper. I catch myself wondering what he would think of this or that.

This was especially true twice in the last several weeks. The first occurrence was in September when Linda and I were up at the lake closing down the cabins. Near the end of our trip, we were out on the pontoon boat and the Belt of Venus was especially bright. Seeing the Belt always makes me think of Bob, but rather than sitting quietly and enjoying the sight, I stood at the front of the boat and shouted across the water, “Bob, I need a sign that you can hear me. Make a fish jump.”

Nothing happened and after a few seconds Linda and I both laughed. However, less than a minute later a large fish leapt from the water and came back down in huge splash. I can’t tell you exactly what we looked like, but I am sure that the surprise on our faces were priceless. Yes, fish do jump, but we had been out on the water for a least an hour and this was the first one that did that. It was also the first one we witnessed in many trips to the lake this year. It happens, but it is not a common occurrence.

Still having doubts about what just happened, I stood up again and began to shout, “Just to be sure it’s you, Bob, do it again.” I got as far as his name when another fish did the exact same thing.

This took us way past surprised looks. Whether it was a message from Bob or something else altogether, I knew that we had crossed outside the realm of mere coincidences. One fish, maybe, but two fish goes far beyond anything I can simply write off as happenstance. Queue the opening music from The Twilight Zone.

A darkness has fallen
a melancholy veil of silence and reserve
like blades of grass on a late October morning
a still life frozen in place and time
or a thin film of ice
kissing the lake’s shallow shoreline

A darkness has fallen
a hesitation between the seasons
painting the world in an early frost

Power to the People

The second occurrence was far less magical, but just as moving. I am in the process of cleaning out 30 years of junk from our basement in preparation for the installation of drain tiles and a sump pump. Since I have been a bit of a pack rat for most of my life, I am uncovering all sorts of treasures unseen in years. Most of the findings are headed straight to the trash can or into the recycling bin, but every so often I find something I cannot part with — despite not having thought of it for decades.

On Wednesday, I came upon original mimeographed copies of the fanzine, Socialist Realism Science Fiction. SRSF was a tongue-in-cheek Arizona ‘zine that dates back to 1971 and 1972. Bob is listed as The Minister of Agitation. It was limited to two issues and some might say that that was one and a half issues too many. They were products of their time and inside jokes to the early 70s Phoenix Valley science fiction community.

Several years ago, Bob and I were discussing Arizona science fiction fandom and SRSF came up. Neither of us had seen a copy since the middle 70s and we wondered if any still existed. This led to an exhaustive Internet search where we eventually found the first issue cataloged in a library in Michigan. How it got that far from Arizona remains a mystery, but for $12 the library was willing to make a printed copy and send it to us.

Finding both issues in pristine state was a remarkable find, but it was also terribly sad. If this happened three or more years ago, I would have immediately been on the phone with Bob. I can only imagine where that conversation would have taken us, but I do know that we would have been feverishly happy.

As it stands now, I know of nobody who would possibly understand or care about the historical importance of my discovery. Our older brother, Richard, would have been excited, but he is gone, too. There are other names listed in the ‘zine, but I have no idea if they are still alive and if they are, how to find them. I’ve looked without any success.

Many years ago, an unmarried, unpartnered work friend told me that the hardest part about being single was not lacking someone to share the difficult times with. It was not having someone to go home to when something amazing happened. In that moment, I understood and felt her pain.

Fun fact. In 1971, Bob ran for the Scottsdale City Council. At the age of 18, he was the youngest person to ever attempt that. He ran as a member of the People Power Party. Look back at the cover of SRSF Issue Number One and you will see that it was called the “organ” of the party. Yet another inside joke. Sadly, he lost the election, but Bob wasn’t the lowest vote getter.

In the end, finding SRSF was a joy, but an extremely hollow one. It became yet another conversation I will never have — another joke we cannot share. Sadly, talking to fish, no matter how magical that might seem at the time, will never replace hearing Bob answer the phone with his usual, “Hey, Brother.”

Some people die at 25 and aren’t buried until 75. Benjamin Franklin

Life and Death

I did not set out to write a continuation of my Coming of Age series, but it’s not surprising that I did. One cannot think about being human and alive without addressing death. No matter where you come from, how much money you accumulate, or how well you live your life, death is something we all have in common. There will always be frost in October and winter is never far behind. I can only hope that when my time comes, I will be missed as much as I miss my brother. I would like to think that fish will jump for me, too, but let’s not get greedy.

If you would like to know more about Bob, you can read my eulogy to him here.

Thank you for reading.

How can I
a transplant to this place
learn to welcome the darkness
that grips the land like two black bookends
with scarcely any books between
how can I prepare myself for the onslaught of winter’s madness
that reaches her cold as death fingers well below the skin
beyond the bone and deep into the marrow
until I willingly beg for Zelda’s fiery grave